New Suit
by TelWoman
Summary: In his last days before retirement, Klaus is given new duties.


New Suit

By TelWoman

Summary:

With his retirement mere months away, Klaus is withdrawn from active service and given a new role.  
The story begins at NATO Intelligence Headquarters in Bonn, late in 2016.

Notes:

Written for the Imzy From Eroica With Love community's 12th of November 2016 1000 Words Challenge, to write a story from the POV of a fashion consultant brought in to advise either Klaus or Dorian on their choice of clothing. As you will see, the story veered away from the challenge, and it's twice as long as it should be. Also, I'm posting this without beta, so after I've arranged someone to beta the thing, it might get tightened up a little. For now, take it in the spirit of a quick-and-dirty job to meet a challenge.

Work Text:

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"You're no longer being deployed in the field, pending your retirement. You're an officer of senior rank, and therefore a suitable candidate. Your calendar is clear, so you are available to represent NATO at this event." The Chief leaned back in his chair, looking smug. "No, von dem Eberbach, I can't see that your objections over-rule any of our reasons for choosing you."

"With respect, sir—" Klaus grated out, but the Chief cut him off.

"Respect, von dem Eberbach? When did you ever have any respect for the Chief of your Division? You never treated my predecessor with respect, and I have to say that in the eight years I've been your superior officer, I haven't seen you show one iota of deference for me either. To be frank, von dem Eberbach, I'll be pleased to see the door close behind you when you go. In the meantime, you'll be required to represent NATO at official events, and I'll thank you to watch what you say to people while you're doing it."

Klaus sat fuming. _Why is the Chief of the Intelligence Division always an idiot? Thirty years I put up with that fat pervert Twitterswell; and then they appoint this jackass. The Division's going to hell in a handbasket. Perhaps I'll be glad to retire, just to get away from the fucking mess._

"Well, von dem Eberbach? Will you accept the task willingly, or will I order you to do it?"

 _H'mph._

No, there was no escape.

"Yes, sir. I will represent the Bonn office at the inauguration of the new Secretary General of the United Nations."

The Chief's mouth compressed into a thin-lipped smirk of victory. "Very good. Report to the Public Relations desk on the third floor at fifteen hundred hours. That is all, Major."

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Klaus had thought that after a career in military intelligence spanning more than forty years, he couldn't be surprised any more.

Apparently, he was wrong about that.

"A tailor? A fucking tailor?"

"Major, please! Language!" the Public Relations Adviser admonished. Her cheeks flushed with annoyance, or maybe it was embarrassment – Klaus couldn't tell which. Perhaps it was both. Not that he cared.

The tailor, looking awkward, avoided Klaus's eyes, but the Public Relations Adviser was made of stronger stuff.

"Look, Major. You're going to a high-profile event as NATO's representative. The media will be there. It's an important occasion. The UN is keen to use it as an opportunity to show that they have the support of governments and powerful organisations around the world—"

"Don't patronise me. I know that. Why do I need a tailor? I've got a wardrobe full of suits."

"You need a better one."

"What do you mean, 'better'?"

"More fashionable. Cutting-edge. High quality. Photogenic."

Thunderstruck, Klaus found himself momentarily lost for words. _Photogenic? Of all the foppish—!_

He took a deep breath and spoke in the slow, quiet, deliberate tones that had reduced terrorists and assassins to quaking ruins. "You seem to misunderstand something. I'm a senior intelligence officer, not a fucking male model."

Steely-eyed, unwavering, the Public Relations Adviser glared back at him. "I'm aware of that, Major – but you will be required to put up a good showing all the same. And that will begin with a new suit. Perhaps you would care for a cup of coffee while Herr Vogelsang takes your measurements."

 _H'mph._

"Nescafé. Black."

Klaus took off his jacket, mentally counting the days left until his retirement.

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As he dressed for the Inauguration Ceremony on 1 January, Klaus grudgingly admitted to himself that he did look very smart. The new suit fitted perfectly. It moved with him, smooth and sleek, like a second skin. He turned to right and left, appreciating the cut and finish. He allowed himself a moment of self-satisfaction, patting his still-flat stomach.

 _I might be going on sixty-six, but I haven't let myself go. Not like those lazy bastards who've spent their lives behind desks getting flabby._

He mused further on this as he travelled to the ceremony in the back seat of a NATO car. He'd been suited to a life of action, so he'd stayed in the field longer than most of his contemporaries. Desk jobs, paperwork, diplomacy – none of them had held any appeal for him. He'd seen adversaries and colleagues alike come and go – and he'd stayed where he wanted to be, where he could be most effective.

But now, in these last months of service, he'd been withdrawn from action in the field, and here he was: reduced to being a mannequin, dressed up in a smart suit. Photogenic.

 _H'mph._

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Klaus handed his engraved invitation card to an usher, who showed him to his seat. He looked at his watch. Fifteen minutes to go before the ceremony started. He gazed around at the other guests.

There was the Russian delegation over there. Men in grey suits with wide shoulder-pads. Faces of granite. Three rows back, he saw a thickset man with a hard jawline. _No. Couldn't be. Couldn't be Comrade Bear Cub._ Old Soviet spies, particularly brawlers and bruisers like Mischa, wouldn't be in the official party. Stuffed into suits and made to play at being diplomats.

Klaus swallowed as he recognised the irony. Here he was – Iron Klaus – stuffed into a suit and told to watch what he said to people.

 _H'mph._

And over there – that was the British party. Women dressed in tweed suits, immovable hair lacquered into subservience. Men with tasteful ties and dark clothes and bland expressions. Charles Lawrence had been a man like that, Klaus remembered: tasteful, tailored and bland – self-deluded and inefficient. _Thought he was living in an Ian Fleming novel. Fool._

None of the men in the English contingent looked like Lawrence, however; and a second look at the Russians confirmed that the man in the third row was not Mischa the Bear Cub after all. Klaus looked at his watch again. Ten minutes to go.

"Why, Major von dem Eberbach! It is you, isn't it?"

Klaus felt a chill seize hold of his backbone. That was a voice he hadn't heard for more than ten years. He turned his head slowly.

 _Eroica._

Still tall and slim and graceful, his striking good looks matured but undimmed. He still wore his hair long, but it was pulled back into a ponytail (still blond, although threaded through with a little grey). In place of the outlandish frippery of old, he was wearing a dark suit that showed off his still-athletic figure.

"It _is_ you!" Pure joy radiated from the man's smile. "You've hardly changed, Major. And that's a superb suit you're wearing!"

"Lord Gloria." Klaus nodded in greeting: polite, restrained. _The Public Relations Harpy would be proud._

The usher who had been showing him to his seat was left standing in the aisle, looking confused, as Lord Gloria sidled into the empty chair next to Klaus.

"I'm supposed to be over there, with the group from the House of Lords," he said; "but I'd much rather sit here with you. It's been such a long time, Major!"

"House of Lords?" Klaus felt mildly alarmed. Had the English Parliament taken a viper into its bosom? Appointed the thief Eroica to a seat in the Upper House?

Lord Gloria gave a quiet and musical laugh, his blue eyes dancing. "I'm not a Member, if that's what you're thinking. I'm merely supposed to be sitting with them. I'm representing the Arts Council of Great Britain."

 _Almost as bad,_ thought Klaus, clichés about Dracula and blood banks flashing through his mind.

Lord Gloria pursed his lips with amusement. "I can see what you're thinking, Major, but I'm sorry to disappoint you. I've retired from my former profession. I'm a respectable member of society these days. The Earl of Gloria: art collector, adviser, elder statesman of the art world." He smiled. "What about you, Major? Are you on duty?"

"Yes and no," Klaus grumbled. "I'm retiring soon, so they've withdrawn me from active duty and I'm being sent to events like this. My duties are to wear a suit, shake hands, and watch what I say to people."

Lord Gloria laughed again. "Well, I must say it's a very smart suit, even if it's your duty to wear it." His eyes sparkled.

Around them, people began to stand up. The Inauguration Ceremony was beginning.

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By the time the ceremony had finished, Klaus felt like a caged tiger. He longed to stretch his legs, to _move_. Sitting in one place with no other purpose than filling up a space didn't suit him.

People began to move out of their seats, filing into a nearby reception room where solemn, expressionless waiters offered glasses of champagne.

Klaus followed – _like a good sheep_ – and the Earl followed him. Strangely, Klaus thought, the Earl's presence wasn't the irritation it ought to be. In fact, he was quite enjoying the company of an old colleague from the earlier and more danger-filled days of his career. But, standing there in the press of expensive suits and correct behaviour, sipping champagne, Klaus felt stifled.

"You don't appear to be enjoying this, Major." The Earl was still perceptive, too.

"I'd rather be in the middle of a gun-battle than in the middle of this bullshit," Klaus growled.

Lord Gloria put down his half-filled champagne glass. "I know a little place just around in the next street. Why don't we go there and have a drink on our own?"

"Good idea." Klaus placed his glass beside the Earl's and they slipped out of the reception room together.

In less than ten minutes, they were settled at a table in a small wine bar, a bottle of Mosel wine resting in an ice-bucket, full glasses in front of them.

"You know, Major, I have trouble imagining you retired." Lord Gloria contemplated the clear pale-gold wine in his glass. "What made you decide?"

"Too hard to make a difference. Too few people I can rely on. Too much bureaucracy." Klaus swallowed a large mouthful of wine, and wished he'd insisted on beer. "What about you? I didn't think thieves retired."

"Oh, but they do, Major."

"Why, then?"

The Earl shrugged. "Technology outstripping our ability to stay ahead. Surveillance everywhere. The romance had gone out of it."

Klaus could see what he meant, although he wouldn't put it in those terms. He nodded. "For me, there wasn't enough challenge in the job any more. Not the right sort of challenge."

"Exactly. Not enough of the right sort of challenge. And when I realised that was happening to me, I retired. So now, I build up my art collection – legitimately - and I do good works. The sort of things an Earl is supposed to do." Lord Gloria smiled. "What about you, Major? What will you do now?"

Klaus looked up at the ceiling. The truth was, he hadn't been able to envision his life in retirement at all.

"Don't know," he said. "Run my estate. Modernise the Schloss a bit. Breed horses. Cultivate the garden. No idea."

Chuckling, the Earl lifted out the wine bottle and topped up their glasses. "It does take a while to adjust."

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Klaus stood on the pavement watching the tail lights of Lord Gloria's taxi disappear down the street.

In the past, the prospect of spending several hours in the company of Eroica, Art Thief and Fucking Nuisance, would have been enough to send Klaus into a towering rage. Things had changed, clearly. The last several hours, spent sharing first a bottle of wine and then a meal, had been enjoyable. Even relaxing. He'd forgotten that the Earl was such a good conversationalist.

They'd exchanged business cards at the end of the evening, just before they left the restaurant.

"I'm retiring. My card's useless," Klaus had protested.

"For a souvenir, then!" the Earl had replied, his voice lilting with laughter.

Klaus had forgotten how much the man laughed, too. Genuine, joyful laughter – not the derisive, sarcastic laughter he heard more often in his workplace.

The Earl had presented him with the card he was carrying as the Art Council's representative, and then had taken another card out of his pocket and borrowed a pen from a passing waiter. "I'll write down my phone number and email address, Major. Get in touch any time. If you're in England, call me."

Klaus had put the two cards into his pocket without reading them. Now, he took them out to look more closely. The Arts Council one, he slipped back into his pocket straight away. He read the phone number and email address on the other, and turned the card over.

There, inscribed in deep rose-red script on a pale pink background, he read: _From Eroica with love. Good luck!_

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End file.
